


Lowdown

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [74]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Plug, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bottom Sam, Boy King of Hell Sam, Dark, Double Anal Penetration, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Post-Mark of Cain, Post-Series, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Public Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Telepathic Bond, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an experiment. </p><p>There are shadows and whispers of their pasts. Needs must be met. Dean is the only one who can do that for Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lowdown

This is Sam’s idea.

It’s forty degrees outside, which is practically summer. Walking down the street at midnight, Dean watches the city wake up and people as they begin to remember what life is like outside.

After two blocks, Sam slips his hand into Dean’s. Stores are shut down and locked up. Street and traffic lights produce quiet illumination, making beer bottles on the curb sparkle. Sam’s hand is dry, but warm. This winter has been tough. What’s left of it is melting, seeping into the street and sewer. Good riddance.

Sam walks easy; there is an intoxicating fluidity to the sway of his hips.

Dean follows that movement into a garishly decorated building. He was told not to allow the appearance to turn him off. Neon mixes with glitter and sequins and the mess of it is nauseating. Near the bar, there is a squeeze to his hand—patience.

People make way for Sam. They make way for what they notice: a smile just on the side of Midwestern boy shy, dimples to frame it, trusting and open eyes, and the effortless flip of glossy, sleek hair. Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, trying his best to wait without acting on impulse. His fingers dig into his thighs as a woman places her fingers over Sam’s arm on the bar. That could be forgiven. Could. But then her male friend snakes behind her and settles over the small of Sam’s back, fingers splayed wide to feel the top curve of Sam’s ass.

In the shadow of the bar, Sam takes his time reacting. He allows a good, long view of another man’s hand over his hips, lets the idea of it stain. One glance over his shoulder and Dean shakes his head, fists clenched, jaw twitching.

End it. End it now.

Long fingers make a game of this. They slide over the underside of the man’s wrist, over the flutter of delicate bones and veins. Here, destruction is effortless. Flashy pop music pulses around them, like the elevated heartbeat Sam is timing. The erratic rise and fall of the man’s chest seizes the second Sam applies tactful pressure.

Two martinis arrive on the bar. Leave it to Sam to order that.

Maintaining his grip, Sam pays with his free hand. The bartender can keep the change. Sam releases the man only to secure both drinks. With a nod, Sam leaves. He hands Dean one of the martinis.

 _That was stupid_.

_You watched._

_I watch a lot of stupid shit._

_I bought you a drink._

It isn’t _his_ drink, but it is _a_ drink, so Dean downs it. He grimaces at the unexpected burn of it. From behind his glass, Sam only smiles.

This is an experiment.

Drinks finished, Sam slips his hand into Dean’s once again. They steer towards a dim, secluded pocket of the main dance floor. The sway and swagger returns. Dark wash jeans are fitted to long legs, firm thighs, and an ass made to pound against. The hem of the navy baseball tee Sam has on falls just over the band of his jeans, accentuating what Dean means to leave sore and red.

All around, people merge into a sea of undulating movement. Waves of heartbeats at different rates spill over, unknown and undetected by all but two. Sam stops Dean, turns to face him, moving to lean in.

There are too many distractions.

And Sam thinks he has control.

Dean pulls Sam forward by the collar of his shirt, twisting and wringing and tugging until he crushes his lips over Sam’s. He forces Sam to open up—drives his way inside, relentless against the clash of their teeth and the smack of their lips. Gin. Heat. Saccharine. Sam.

Shuddering, Sam does not back down. He closes the distance between their hips and drops his hands over Dean’s ass, groping and squeezing while the buckles of their belts skim together. Sam bites down on the fleshy part of Dean’s bottom lip. Nerve endings ignite, fixing Dean to that one point. He lets out groan. Siren calls sound out from every direction, hoping to attract or be attracted. The onslaught of heartbeats pulls at Dean for a moment as his eyes close. He brings his hands to Sam’s jaw. His fingertips glide over the fury of blood pumping through the metrical artery.

Focused now, tuned to the only pumping, beating muscle that matters, heat in Dean’s fingers boils to something stronger, steamier. He shoves Sam back with a push of his hips. The hardened tents in their jeans grind against each other, and their lips fuse together again. Sam uses his teeth.

The gradual simmer against Sam’s neck gushes over into a swelter.

Pleasure courses through Sam, starting at this critical point.

_Blow me._

_I…_

_Blow. Me._

Resistance is not tolerated. Dean floods into Sam, destroying the levy and submerging Sam in a deluge of rough, distinctive pleasure. This is how Dean feels. This is how he rushes into every part of Sam—from the jump of his jugular to the drooling tip of his hard, flushed cock.

Hazel eyes roll back. Sam slumps forward. Dean draws back.

Clutching the reprieve, Sam bends to his knees. There has to be physical contact at all times for this to work, for the connection not to snap. And if it snaps prematurely, they provoke searing pain that reaches past a physical point. It hurts them for days. Dean is careful. He maintains one hand in Sam’s hair and the other on his cheek.

Provocative, Sam licks his lips, looking up. Challenge is there, with a promise.

The music changes drastically.

The tempo is slow, but the instrumentals churn, heavy and coarse at the forefront. Blues cuts into rock with a firm and insistent beat. The purr of a zipper opening is followed by the yowling first line.

_She’s a crooked girl in a real straight town._

Sam grips the base of Dean.

In one smooth swallow, Sam takes Dean’s cock, his lips shiny and his cheek bulging. Dean exhales. He feels the twitch of his cock as he traces the weight of himself. Spit slicks the first drive forward. Sam is all wetness and no resistance. He takes Dean into his throat beautifully. The muscles in Dean’s thighs complain; it’s not time yet. This is a view worth devouring.

_The lights go down clover honey and the jimson weed._

Push in an inch. Pull out an inch.

_Red leather skirt way above her knees oh yeah my baby is lowdown._

Stuffed, Sam’s eyes water. Dean thumbs away the tears. He tilts Sam to open up further, until his balls rest on the plane of Sam’s chin. Every rise of pleasure from Dean ebbs into Sam from Dean’s fingertips. Sam swallows, flexing the muscles in his throat. In delectable response, Dean swells. Satin surrounds the fat head of his cock. Halfway pulled out, Dean thrusts in, sudden and sharp. The gag that follows is louder than the beat of Sam’s heart and the pulse of his blood.

_She’s a gone lost dirt road there ain’t no way back I been told._

On his knees, Sam takes everything Dean gives.

_She’s a story they all tell._

He takes the scorch and burn of Dean’s fingers—the singe of every part of him to feel pleasure.

_She’s a rebel._

His throat goes slack.

 _She’s a yell_.

He gives himself up.

_Oh yeah my baby’s lowdown._

Spit saturates Dean’s cock. It drips down Sam’s chin, making the underside of Dean’s balls stick from it and the humidity between them. Every second is savored. Dean fucks into Sam’s mouth, pounding, working out noises he can always detect.

With a pop, Dean pulls out. Sam’s eyes flutter; he maintains his mouth open, looking up, waiting so good, so patient. Dean traces the outline of that mouth with the wet tip of his cock.

The song starts over.

Sam is hard in his jeans.

The lyrics split for Dean.

_Stand up._

Their eyes never leave each other, just like Dean’s hands never lift off from Sam’s jaw. Miles of long, lean muscle work, rising with elegance, until they are mouth to mouth again. The first kiss is sweet, Dean sweeping to taste himself on Sam. His fingers work their way back to the river, pressing, rolling. Bobbing between them, Dean’s cock jumps when his fingers elicit a moan from Sam. There. Right there.

Every kiss after that is punishing, brutal, aggressive.

 _White heat in a cold rain I’m a merging here in your merging lane_.

What cannot happen, happens in a visual space, filtered into Dean, behind his closed eyes. They find a wall. Licking the sweat off of Sam’s neck, Dean shudders. The visual. Focus.

Lust and something profoundly darker burns in Dean’s arm. It fuels the sensuous whisper of power and sin rolling off Sam in waves.

They are matched.

 _Well she’s a wild rose she is not settled cold gun of ice blue metal_.

Dean holds Sam down—chest to the wall, back to Dean—and shoves the fitted jeans Sam is wearing down, bunched under the pert, rounded globes of his ass. His right arm loops around Sam, so that his hand stays steady on the line of Sam’s throat. His left hand spreads Sam open and delves down into that intimate part of him, where the base of a thick plug rests.

_My baby’s lowdown._

Sam can take him.

Wet from spit and generous lube, Dean nudges his cock against the base.

Sam _will_ take him.

The burn of it spills over into the visual. Dean keeps a hand on his cock, pushing in, working past the resistance. He takes Sam’s pain and molds it into shapely pleasure, nudging the plug to hit that spot in Sam that makes his thighs tremble. Sam moans against the wall, whimpering, tilting his hips, pushing back and breathing hard. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Crying out, Sam blows the visual up.

Dean bites down on Sam’s neck. His teeth set in, marking, claiming. Halfway into Sam, blood spills into his mouth. Visual. It gushes in, pouring, the spray of it hot and thick. Metallic power surges into every pull Dean makes. He drinks it in, swallowing every drop, and buries himself completely inside Sam.

Blood replaces lube. The squelch of it coats Dean’s cock.

The leftover place on Dean’s arm—that sensitive, dormant area—lights up.

An offering is made.

Dean brings his wrist up to Sam’s mouth. There are no lyrics now, no music, no noise but what lies between them.

These are shadows they feed. These are feathers of what was left behind. This is a need that must be acknowledge, satisfied, and sated.

Sam’s lips part. His teeth nip and graze and drag until his teeth pierce supple skin. This is an offering only Dean could make.

The visual lines up with their hips. Dean fucks Sam hard and shameless. The plug draws out the friction between them. Pressure builds. Sam’s ass bounces against each plunge of Dean’s hips. Twisting, arching, pounding, they climb into each other, bound by blood, fused together until the tip of Dean presses over a bundle of soft, pliant nerves.

Here, the visual breaks.

Sam lets go.

All he is, is the thump and grind in his hips.

He is Dean’s to work.

They fall apart together. Sam’s ass clenches, working over the plug and wringing Dean’s cock. Sam comes with a ragged, loud shout, tossing his head back. He comes again, four, five, six thrusts after, Dean’s right hand on his throat, fingers pushing against that artery, energy seeping into him. This is only a fraction of what Dean feels for Sam. Only a fraction.

Dean comes. His cock spurts out a thick, heavy load deep inside Sam.

The plug keeps it all in.

When they get home, Dean will take the plug out and fuck Sam over the kitchen sink, claiming and marking him once more, in the privacy of their home. They will fall into their bed, sticky and messy and saturated with each other. They will kiss and fight for control and Sam will fall asleep with his head on Dean’s chest, listening to nothing but _badum, badum, badum_.

That’s all they’ve ever wanted.

This was an experiment.

 _My baby’s lowdown_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> phew.... uploading quick before work.


End file.
